| | HUBRIS | | TO THE STARS | | It was dark.
It's strange. The darkness was once comforting to him; now, it was crushing.
Floating among the debris of space — ship fragments, asteroids, satellites — he had nothing left to do but think. Think and reflect, with the shrill, stinging beep of his spacesuit warning him of his air depleting. Somehow, his heart rate didn't match it, instead beating steady and slow, like this was fine.
He supposed it was, really. All he'd ever known, all he'd ever wanted was space. The empty white space he was raised in, the gunmetal interior space of the ship he was bred to pilot, the black emptiness of space beyond all of that. This was the best death he could've hoped for: going out in a blaze of maybe glory, maybe failure, on one last mission to destroy the very exoplanet he was once meant to protect. He huffs a soft snort at the irony, as if it had ever been lost on him, and then thinks of other spaces. The confined and cramped and comforting space of the rusty ship he was rescued on, where he met the people (the friends) who had 'brainwashed' him out of protecting that pathetic place he once called home.
Well, he thinks, eyes drifting shut, drinking in the last sparkles of stars, at least they don't gotta save my sorry self anymore.
It's dark, then. Silence so loud he hears only the blood in his ears, the interior beeps of the suit, but even those dissolve into white noise.
"Ad—"
The white noise is invasive enough that it's beginning to sound like words, annoyingly. Who ever said death was quiet?
"An — er — e—"
His brows furrow. Man, that's frustrating. He wanted to drift into death easily.
"—ead me?"
... Is that his radio?
"Mile — way!"
The noise crackles, infuriatingly loud, before it pops in his ear and the white noise vanishes. It burns a little, but it's nothing in comparison to the other wounds' dull aches enveloping his body. He had been able to ignore it, until this radio issue. He grunts as his finger twitches towards the diagnostics button on his suit, and it blares: ERROR. 5% AIR SUPPLY REMAINING. ERROR. EMERGENCY CHARGE NEEDED. RADIO: OFF. EMERGENCY REPAIRS NEEDED. ERROR.
"I get it," he spits, hoarse, and, oh, is that blood that came out?
The sharp, blinding light of a shooting star makes him cringe — but, no, that isn't a star. That's... his ship. That rusty, ugly bucket, with them in the window. He stares, lips parting and, for the first time in his long drift, his heart skips a beat.
They — they found him. His friends... his family. They really... "came for me."Finally, as he was pulled towards the ship, and his suit was pulled off, and warm hands touched his face, he gave into the exhaustion.
It was dark, but... not for long.
| | | Captain | Failure | Friend |
|
Storm Tigrean
blossombomb
